


Not Our First Kiss

by WhatsUpDocWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Episode: The Abominable Bride, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25387348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatsUpDocWatson/pseuds/WhatsUpDocWatson
Summary: Sherlock realizes he doesn't fully remember some important events from a fateful day.Trigger warnings: A character kisses another character without permission.The deaths of the villains (Moriarty and Magnussen) are briefly mentioned.Sherlock suffers the ill-effects of drug use.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	Not Our First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet references scenes from BBC Sherlock Series 3/Season 3 "The Abominable Bride." In particular, it refers to the scenes on the plane in which Sherlock fades in and out of his drug-induced Victorian mind palace, while Mycroft, John, and Mary look on with concern.

Sherlock sat in his leather chair in 221B Baker Street, idly scrolling through his phone. It had been a productive day -- three cases solved before lunch, not bad for a Saturday -- and the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the sitting room windows began to make him a little sleepy. He almost didn't hear John descending the stairs from the upstairs bedroom. Sherlock, pretending to be more awake than he was, grinned as John quietly entered and closed the door to the sitting room behind him.

"Rosie finally, finally went down for her nap," he announced as he rubbed his face with parental exhaustion, "But not without a fight. That's toddlers for ya."

John headed to the kitchen. 

"I'm going to make some tea. Want any?" he offered.

"Please," Sherlock enthused. 

Once the tea was ready, John carefully made his way into the sitting room carrying two mugs, one which he set down at the side table near his own red chair, the other he handed to Sherlock.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, looking up at him with a gracious smile.

John leaned down and kissed Sherlock; quickly, gently, as if he had done it a hundred times before. He turned to walk to his own chair, only to stop short after two steps as the full realization of what he had just done sunk in.

"John?" Sherlock said in astonishment.

John squared his shoulders and continued forward until he was standing directly behind his armchair. Yes, the chair would be a solid structure to hold onto, John thought. A bunker, a shield of sorts, and it had the added benefit of putting some distance between himself and Sherlock. He would need it. John took a deep breath and turned to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Sherlock, I apologize. I am really, really, sorry. I don't know how it happened." John looked absolutely scared to death.

Sherlock touched his freshly kissed lips with a forefinger. He cast his eyes down in consternation.

"This isn't the first time we've kissed, is it?" Sherlock murmured, trying very hard to recall something that had slipped his mind. John gripped the back of the chair just a bit harder.

"No, it isn't," John admitted, with a touch of remorse in his eyes, as if he'd let loose a well-kept secret. Sherlock looked up at him with pure curiosity.

"Do jog my memory, if you don't mind," he requested with all politeness. He steepled the fingers of his hands and rested them against his lips in preparation.  
John exhaled loudly and glanced up to the ceiling, gathering strength.

"It was the day you were being banished to Eastern Europe after shooting Magnussen," John began, "Do you remember?"

"I won't soon forget that day, John," Sherlock quipped.

"Well, you were high as a kite at the time," John pointed out, "So there may be large swaths of the day you may have missed."

"Point well taken. Carry on John," Sherlock said with an impatient wave of his hand.

"Your plane took off, and within minutes it was turning around again and landing. Mary, Mycroft, and I boarded and you were gibbering on about some cold case involving a Victorian ghost woman killing off horrible husbands..."

Sherlock closed his eyes and his own memory kicked in. He recalled a trip to his mind palace: a very interesting one involving John and himself, and an incident at a waterfall in 1894. The Reichenbach Falls. Moriarty. A struggle. An unexpected rescue.

"Time you woke up, Sherlock," a mustachioed, John Watson was saying. Moriarty was swiftly dispatched. Holmes and Watson briefly discussed how Sherlock would execute his waking up, and then Sherlock sailed out over the waterfall.

He woke with a start in an airplane seat. The first thing his eyes focused on was John, standing over him with a look of concern. Mycroft and Mary were not far off, with similar anxious expressions on their faces.

Sherlock attempted a smile.

"Miss me?"

John peered into Sherlock's eyes, checking his vital signs.

"Sherlock, are you all right?"

"Of course I am," scoffed Sherlock, "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Because you probably just OD'd," Mary suggested helpfully, "You should be in hospital. Hm?"

"No time," Sherlock answered with a shake of his head. He began to rise from his seat. "I must go to Baker Street now. Moriarty's back."

But he rose too quickly and thus wobbled, falling back to his seat, clearly not sober enough to walk unsupported.

"Oopsies," he said and tried to get up again. John softly pushed him back down.

"All right, Sherlock," he instructed, "Just stay seated, okay?" John turned to the others.

"Mary," John uttered, "Hospital sounds like a good idea, could you call an ambulance?"

"I'm on it," she said and made her way swiftly off the plane.

Sherlock registered the presence of his older brother looming nearby; which did not sit well with him.

"Mycroft, what are you just standing around for?" snapped Sherlock, "Shouldn’t you be out getting me a pardon or something? Moriarty’s back! Didn't you hear?"

"I almost hope he is," Mycroft responded in measured tones, "If it’ll save you from this." He held up the list of drugs Sherlock had meticulously written out. Sherlock made a lunge for the piece of paper.

"Give me that!" Sherlock growled, swiping at it angrily.

"Easy! Easy, Sherlock. Back down you go," John said, having to restrain his friend a bit more this time around. John looked over his shoulder at Mycroft.

"Mycroft, hold onto that for the medics, would you please? And could you… erm … give us a minute? It’ll only be a minute. I’ll manage to get him off the plane, even in this state. Promise."

Mycroft studied the doctor dubiously for a moment, but then simply left with a nod. Sherlock, finally resigned to stay seated, rubbed his head and blinked, disoriented. John stood over him once again, his expression deadly serious.

"Six months. Six months undercover in Eastern Europe, " John pondered, " 'Six months, Mycroft estimates, and he’s never wrong', you said. " John stared Sherlock intently in the eye. "You weren’t coming back from this one, were you?"

Sherlock averted his eyes with guilt.

"Consider it a forced suicide mission," he said.

John's eyes boiled with anger.

"Why am I..." he raged, before squeezing his eyes and mouth shut tightly to bring himself back under control. Sherlock watched the transformation of his friend's facial expressions through bleary eyes. When John's eyes opened again, they were filled with sorrow. 

John began again, "Why am I always the last to know, hm?"

It was starting to become difficult for Sherlock to keep his eyes and mind focused, but he tried his mightiest for John.

"I tried to tell you. I mentioned it was unlikely we’d ever meet again," Sherlock replied. He attempted to lighten the mood, "I believe I even tried to get you to name your daughter after me."

But John was in no mood for levity.

"So, I would end up losing you. Again. Unwittingly. Permanently."

Sherlock looked away sadly, as did John.

"Is that really preferable to prison?" John asked, "Where at least I would know you were alive, Sherlock. Rather than thinking you were alive, but you actually being dead."

"John, I ..." but Sherlock found himself lost for words.

John closed his eyes to hold back emotion. He held his breath and leaned in towards Sherlock. He gave Sherlock a simple kiss.

Sherlock was rendered speechless: his head reeled with far too much emotion and far too many narcotics.

John kept his face close to Sherlock's, observing him closely.

"I was nearly destroyed the first time you died," John said, his voice low, "What would become of me the second time, Sherlock?"

"You kissed me, John," Sherlock said, perplexed.

"Good," replied John, "I’m glad your powers of observation are still functioning."

"Kissed me... why, exactly?" Sherlock slurred.

"I should have done it long ago."

"What about Mary," Sherlock asked as his eyelids grew heavy.

"I’m not concerned with her at the moment," John answered firmly.

"My head's feeling a little funny, I’m afraid…" Sherlock's voice filled with distress. "I worry that I won’t remember this, John."

Sherlock, indeed, looked like he would pass out at any moment. John mobilized into action. He grasped his friend by his elbows and attempted to pull him to standing.

"Okay, time to get you off the plane, then," he insisted, "Ambulance will be here any second now."

"No wait," Sherlock objected, remaining stubbornly seated, "Kiss me one more time… it'll help solidify it in my hard drive."

"Oh no, no, no," John chuckled, "It wasn’t even a good idea to kiss you in the first place, in your current state."

"Please," Sherlock pleaded desperately. He could already feel himself slip into his mind palace. "Please? I don't want to forget."

John's face softened.

"I'll remember for the both of us," John whispered and deposited one more kiss on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock Holmes found himself in 221B Baker Street, in 1894, sitting comfortably in his chair with a newspaper in hand. The phonograph in the corner quietly played a violin concerto. John Watson walked into the sitting room balancing two tea cups on saucers. He placed one by his chair and carefully handed the other to Holmes, who smiled up at him fondly.

"Thank you, Watson."

Watson leaned down and kissed Holmes -- quickly, gently, familiarly -- and then took his customary seat facing Holmes. He smoothed his mustache as he settled in, and picked up a book from the side table. Holmes watched him in quiet adoration. Both men resumed their reading with much contentment.

Sherlock awoke from his reverie, finding himself once again in his leather chair at 221B Baker Street, in his proper timeline this time. He looked up at John curiously. John remained at his post standing behind his chair, possessing the same look of fear on his face, but a measure of hope had crept into his eyes as well.

“You said you would remember for the both of us,” Sherlock wondered, “Did you?”

A wave of relief crashed over John.

“I did,” he said.

"Ah, good."

Sherlock ran a thumb across his lips and knitted his brow.

“So technically, that kiss a moment ago was our third kiss,” mused Sherlock.

John thought about that for a moment and nodded.

“Yes. That’s right.”

“And so,” Sherlock said, rising from his chair with a small smile, “This one, in fact, will be our fourth.”

He closed the gap between himself and John and planted a kiss on Dr. Watson’s perfect lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you find any typos or errors. Much thanks!


End file.
